The Legacy of Alfred Bester
by Dhrelva
Summary: Read the Psi Corps Trilogy first, this takes place after it. Al Bester's wife bore him a son he never met. This is that son's story.
1. Legacy 1

The Legacy of Alfred Bester

NOTE: This story is written as an epilogue to the Psi Corps series by J. Gregory Keyes. Characters and Places are the property of JMS, Babylonian Productions, and so forth. James shook his head. "I just don't understand."  
          The two people at the small, round lunch table looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. One was a middle aged genetic researcher whose name he had not caught. They'd been having lunch together for three weeks almost, since the day after Bester's death, and he felt too embarrassed to ask now. The other was a surprisingly young history professor at the Major Academy. That one's name was Mark Hastrock. James knew that because he'd named him himself. James Hastrock worked as a guard in Teeptown's maximum security prison which held many of the telepathic war criminals. "Understand what?" his son prompted.   
          "Mr. Bester's last words." The geneticist straightened and focussed on him with an uncomfortable intensity, as he always did when Bester's name came up. The man reminded him of somebody, but he couldn't place who.   
          "What did he say?" The geneticist's voice was almost breathless.   
          Someday, James would ask what the man' interest in the criminal was, but for now he'd answer the question. "Still remember it like it were yesterday. He'd asked for audio on the ceremony revealing the Dexter statues. Afterwards, he'd started, I don't know, coughing? Crying? I was sure he was dying. Now, looking back, I think he was laughing, strange as that sounds. I asked him if anything was wrong and he said, mind, these are his exact words, I can't forget them, 'It's nothing. Just the universe.' He said that kind of thing sometimes, and often stopped there, but that time he went on, not that what he said next made any more sense. 'Don't believe anyone when they tell you irony is just a literary convention, James. It's a universal constant, like the coefficient of gravity.' And that was the last thing he ever said. He rolled over, went to sleep with this funny little grin on his face, and never woke up. His hand relaxed, and he went to his grave with that same smile still in place. What did he find so amusing that he could finally let go of life in peace?"   
          "There was no clue in his memoirs?" Mark asked.   
          "Read them twice, but nothing. That man was nuts, but I think he really believed he didn't do anything wrong during the war. Scary thing is, I can almost see where he's coming from, too. Nothing on why that statue might have been ironic, though; he died before he could comment on it in his book."   
          The geneticist was staring at a spot somewhere beyond James' left shoulder. "Fiona, Matthew, and Stephen Dexter. Stephen Walters," he murmured. A startled expression crossed his face, and, even as a P2, James felt the sudden surprised wonder radiate briefly from his companion. Then he looked back at James. "No mention of them in his memoirs?"   
          James shrugged. "Some, but only as a historical note. They existed. Bester caught Stephen Walters on Mars. That kind of thing."   
          The geneticist turned his attention to Mark. "How old would Stephen Dexter be now?"   
          The history professor shrugged. "Oh, I'd say, not quite a hundred. More than eighty, for certain. Why? He's long dead."   
          "Dead, certainly. I'm not sure how long, though, if my hunch is right."   
          Mark raised his eyebrows in surprised curiosity. "Oh? How long do you think he may have been dead for?"   
          "Three weeks." James and Mark stared at him, speechless. He did not seem to notice. Instead, he rose from his seat and hurried from the cafeteria without saying good bye, something he did fairly frequently.   
          James looked at his son for several moments before breaking the silence. _*You don't think he thinks Bester was Stephen Dexter, do you?*_ He 'cast.   
          _*Well it would certainly be ironic.*_

* * *

Benjamin Reich Bester sat down at an AI and inserted a small black chip. He did not know where it came from originally, but that hardly mattered as long as he knew how to operate it. Ben did. The little device did its dirty work, confusing the security of the AI. He typed in several codes, and brought up the DNA sequences of Matthew Dexter, Fiona Temple, and Alfred Bester. Both Matthew and Fiona had been in the reeducation camps, and the Corps had managed to get their genes on file before their escape. Bester's was easy to find; he'd already checked it once to see if his mother told truth or lie when she said he was really Bester's son. Bester said no. Actually, Bester had never spoken to him. But the DNA disagreed with his father's silent denial.   
          The Dexters were a good match, both P12s, genetically compatible. He ran an analysis, then sat back to await the results. It didn't take long. The AI beeped, and Ben leaned forward. He drew in a sharp breath. Suspicion was one thing, confirmation quite another. There was a 98% chance that Alfred Bester was truly the son of Fiona and Matthew Dexter. Stephen Kevin Dexter. That meant Fiona and Matthew were Ben's grandparents? Huh.   
          A timid knock sounded on his office door. He cleared the screen of anything Dexter-related, and palmed the black chip back into its little pouch in his sleeve. "Enter!" he called as he pulled up his regular work, so it appeared he had been working. The door slid open, revealing a boy of five years of age. Ben smiled broadly. "Hey, kiddo, what brings you here?"   
          The boy trotted several steps into the room, then climbed onto the chair opposite Ben's desk. From the chair, he clambered onto the desk, scattering some data crystals that the geneticist was able to catch before they rolled off the surface. Sitting back on his heels, the child smiled. "Just wanna say hi, Daddy." _*Whatcha doin'?*_ He 'cast, switching between spoken and psi without thinking about it.   
          _*Finding out who you great-grandparents were.* _ The wisdom of informing a chatty kindergartener about this was questionable, but the boy was a Bester. Ben was sure he could keep a secret if he had to.   
          _*Yeah?*_ The boy's enthusiasm was less than all-encompassing, but there was true curiosity in his mindvoice.   
          _*Daddy's Daddy's Daddy was Matthew Dexter, and Daddy's Daddy's Mommy was Fiona Temple Dexter. You know who Matthew and Fiona Dexter are, right, Linc?*_   
          Linc's eyes darted toward the window, through which, if the blinds had been open, one should be able to see the new statues on a clear day. _*Yup.*_ Ben waited a minute, letting his son think it through. It had taken Ben a few minutes, too. _*I'm related to them?* _Linc eventually added, wonder in his mindvoice.   
          _*Have to promise not to tell anybody, Lincoln, can you do that?*_   
          _*Why?*_   
          _*'Cuz Daddy's not supposed to know, and you're not supposed to know. If someone finds out, the Grins -*_ he cut himself off. There were no more Grins. But the old threats from his own childhood were the first to come to mind. It was better this way; the Grins were the way of the past, the way of Al Bester's era. He didn't want to threaten his son, there had to be other ways to show the necessity for silence in this. _*If someone finds out, people will treat us different.*_   
          Linc frowned. _*Might stop 'em from botherin' me 'bout Grandpapa Bester.*_   
          _*That's the problem, kid. Grandpapa Bester the Psi Cop is Stephen Dexter the hope of the Rogues. It would confuse people if they found out, and make Stephen's name darker. He wouldn't just be a lost innocent baby anymore. D'you understand what I'm saying, Linc?*_   
          The boy thought about it. Ben watched the young round face as he concentrated and tried to puzzle out what his father was talking about. _*Think so,*_ he 'cast finally. _*Grandpapa's secret.*_ Odd how those two words encompassed everything and nothing of what Ben had been trying to explain.   
          _*Grandpapa's secret,* _he repeated solemnly to his son. 

* * *

Ben set his lunch tray down beside Mark Hastrock's and slid into his seat. Both Mark and James looked at him expectantly. "What?" Ben asked after a moment of silence.   
          "Is he?" Mark demanded. "Is Bester -" he couldn't say it, so he 'cast it. _*Is he Stephen Dexter?*_   
          Ben had considered long at hard how to answer that. He'd known they would after yesterday's performance. He'd let his excitement and shock get out of hand, and he said things he definitely should have kept to himself. James was only a P2, and Mark was only a little stronger, a P4. Neither would notice a P12's light surface scan. James still firmly believed that Stephen Dexter died 92 years ago. Mark had already nearly accepted Ben's hypothesis and was awaiting only final confirmation that Stephen Dexter died 3 weeks ago. Neither had spread the theory to anyone.   
          Ben realized he had forgotten to mention his last name when he introduced himself to them. Mark knew him only as Ben, while James had forgotten his name completely. Ben found it vaguely amusing. Perhaps this was how one should make friends. Leave out part of one's name during the introduction. Jenny had died during the war (though six years after the theoretical end, he considered that train 'accident' an extension of it), as had many his friends. The rest he had lost to prison, relocation, retirement, or embarrassment. His co-workers treated him cooly, and nobody had seemed eager to make his acquaintance since Alfred Bester's role in the war became public.   
          His mother sued for and received her divorce, and had promptly married the man she'd been seeing for as long as Ben could remember. Alisha Bester was now Alisha Dawson. She and her new husband moved far from Teeptown, where nobody knew whose wife she had been.   
          Lincoln was probably getting the worst of it. His current future occupation of choice was a cop, which only made it worse. He'd already cycled through geneticist and songwriter, so Ben wasn't sure how long this goal would hold, but it definitely worried Linc's teachers. The other kids teased him or avoided him, mostly. They knew who his grandfather was. When he was allowed to join their games, he was the War Criminal and they played the EABI agents. He said he was good at it, and getting better every game. It took Ben an hour to explain that being a War Criminal wasn't a job he could have when he grew up.   
          Ben stabbed at a piece of potato. "No,"he answered aloud. "I found the real genetic matches of his parents. They were Corps, killed by a Resistance bomb shortly after his birth. Gulliver Bester was his father, Emily Rocher was his mother." Neither name existed until this moment, but the story was common. Mark and James would not research deeper. James had already forgotten the names - apparently he was very bad at that sort of thing. Funny that, he could remember a prisoner's exact words three weeks later, but he couldn't hold on to a name for even a minute. Mark filed the names away as trivia and might or might not remember them next week. He was disappointed and faintly surprised, but he never doubted Ben's words.   
          One of his pockets started ringing before he could add any garnish to his story or switch topics. He pulled out his phone, and switched it on. "Ben here, go," he said into it, and saw James mouth his name.   
          "This is Mr. Thrapple again. I have Lincoln in my office."   
          Ben wished he was alone as he was the last two times the principal had called. He'd known his luck wouldn't hold out. "He wasn't fighting this time, was he?" There had been a very long talk after that. Ben was not looking forward to another one.   
          "Not physically," the principal answered. Ben was visibly relieved. "But he was arguing with his teacher in a very disrespectful manner. Very reminiscent of," Thrapple lowered his voice almost to a whisper, "Him." Everyone knew who Him was.   
          "Linc is not his grandfather," Ben said wearily, "Linc never met his grandfather. I never met my father. Mr. Thrapple, until I hear specifics that Linc does not deny I will not believe my son is acting like Alfred Bester, even if his name does happen to be Lincoln Powell Bester. I will be there in five minutes." He snapped his phone closed without saying good-bye, and looked at his two companions. "Yes, I'm His son. Benjamin Reich Bester. If you'll excuse me, I have to explain to a biased man that a five year old boy can cause a little bit of trouble without it being an indication of a pathology gene." There were definitely times in his life when he wished that Jared Dawson had been his father.   
          From behind him, he heard James mutter, "Knew he looked like somebody else I knew." Tomorrow, he'd find out if they would let him stay at their lunch table. 

* * *

"Daddy?" Linc's heels clunked against the legs of the kitchen chair. "How come Mr. Thrapple donen't like me?"   
          Ben set the sauce pan on the back burner and turned the appropriate dial to Low. "Mr. Trapple doesn't dislike you, Linc. It's just that in the two months since you started school, you've been sent to his office five times for misbehaving. He doesn't like people to misbehave."   
          Linc shifted in his chair such that he ended sitting on his heels. "You're not mad, are you, Daddy?"   
          Ben began filling another pot with water, then looked back at his son. "No, I'm not mad. But I think you should try harder not to upset your teacher. No fighting, no yelling, ok?"   
          Linc frowned, a surprised and hurt look on his face. "I didn't yell." Injured innocence. Ben had made good use of the expression during his own childhood and even during the war.   
         The pot being nearly full, he shut off the water. "Mr. Thrapple said you were brought to his office today for arguing."   
         "Don't hafta yell to argue," he argued, keeping his voice level and conversational.   
         Ben was impressed by the boy's insight. Linc flushed with pleased pride as he picked up his father's emotion. "How do you know so much, kid?" Ben asked him fondly as he put the pot of water onto the front burner. He spun that dial to High.   
         Surprisingly, Linc looked at his hands guiltily. "Been watching vids," he mumbled.   
         A mental alarm went off in Ben's mind. "What vids?"   
         He changed position in his seat again, this time scrunching into a little ball. "The ones 'bout Grandpapa. He argues quiet."   
         There were Bester vids and then there were Bester vids. If he'd been watching the kind villifying Alfred Bester, Ben would have some explaining to do, but if he'd been watching the other kind, there could be serious repercussions. "Where did you find these vids?" he asked cautiously.   
         "Your 'puter. Are you mad at me now?"   
         Ben closed his eyes and tried to breathe. "No, I'm not mad, Linc." That was truth, he was too scared to be mad. Security vids of interrogations Alfred Bester had participated in. Personal logs by Alfred Bester. Security vids of meetings Alfred Bester had attended. Even a few home vids that Alfred Bester had appeared in. ISN reports that mentioned Alfred Bester, both interviews and bulletins. The collection had taken decades to compile. It should had been protected by three separate passwords. "How did you find them?" He remembered the sauce suddenly, and began stirring it with a wooden spoon.   
         Reassured that his dad wasn't mad, Linc uncurled from his ball. He leaned forward, putting his elbows and forearms on the table. It slanted toward him as he put most of his weight on it. "Used the little black thingy."   
         That scared Ben more than that his son had been watching Grandpapa's vids. Shadow tech. In Linc's hands. "I don't want you ever using that, Linc."   
         Big brown eyes met Ben's. "Why, Daddy? You use it."   
         "It's a grown-up thing. I'll tell you about it some day, but now you have to promise not to touch it or tell anyone about it." He hated the hypocrisy, but he did not want Linc involved. Not with Shadow tech. Not yet. "Grandpapa's secret,"he added on impulse.   
         Linc clearly did not want to give up his security clearance, but he eventually nodded. "Ok. I promise. Grandpapa's secret." They seemed to be magic words to the boy. He did not ask what Grandpapa had to do with the black chip. Ben wasn't sure if he should be worried or relieved by the lapse. 

* * *

The next morning, Ben walked his son to school as usual. Routine broke when he accompanied the boy into the building and followed him to the school nurse's office. The door was open, but Ben knocked on the wall anyway. The woman seated in front of an AI unit turned around and smiled at them. "Hi," Ben said.   
         "Hello, yourself," she said, friendly. "What can I do for you?"   
         Ben looked down at the top of his son's head nervously, then met her eyes again. "I'm Benjamin Bester. Linc and I have an appointment with the psychologist."   
         "Oh, yes, I am Dr. Schlick, if you'll join me in the back room?" Was her sudden distance a result of his name or his relegation to patient status?   
         "Certainly." He shooed Linc through the indicated doorway. Dr. Schlick followed and ordered the door closed behind them. He hefted Linc onto the paper-covered patient's table. The five year old's feet automatically began swinging, clunking into the drawers under him. Ben took an orange plastic chair that was sized for someone rather smaller than even his short frame. The doctor took the green adult-sized chair. "Linc," Ben said warningly, catching an ankle before it bumped the table again. The boy managed to stop by pulling his legs into a cross-legged position.   
         "Benjamin and Lincoln Bester," the doctor said, flipping through a manila folder. She glanced quickly toward Ben, "You're His son?"   
         Ben knew what she meant, but the question annoyed him for some reason. "No, Linc's my son."   
         Schlick appeared taken aback for a moment, before smiling, "I suppose I deserved that. But this is relevant to the session; your father was Alfred Bester, Mr. Bester?"   
         "Dr. Bester," Ben corrected his title, "I have a degree in genetics. To answer your question, yes, Mr. Alfred Bester was my biological father. I believe you already knew that," he inclined his head toward the folder.   
         She nodded thoughtfully, then asked clinically, "Have you ever considered changing your name, Dr. Bester?"   
         "May I ask what business that is of yours, Dr. Schlick?"   
         "You may," she looked at Linc who was playing with a pen and a tongue depressor he'd found somewhere. She turned back to Ben. "I believe it is the power of your surname that is causing Lincoln to draw more than his fair share of negative attention."   
         Ben pinched his lips together briefly. "I already figured that out. Dr. Schlick, Bester is my name. It is my son's name. This war that pitted telepath against telepath, that destroyed my father's life, was fought to bring us freedom, to allow us to be judged as people, not as the Corps. Yes, Al Bester was a war criminal, but though we share a name and quite a few genes, Linc and I are not him. The war was pointless if we are judged as Besters rather than as people. As a point of integrity, I cannot change my name, or my son's, just because one man sullied it. Just because it would make our lives a little easier, a little more friendly. We have a right and a duty to prove Besters can do good as well as evil."   
         Dr. Schlick looked both surprised and impressed by his speech. After a moment, she broke the tense silence. "Well, just as long as you know, despite your idealism, you will both be treated more harshly because of your name." Ben nodded. He'd known that even before Al Bester had been declared a war criminal, back when he was still a respected, if somewhat feared, Psi Cop. The psychologist smiled at the five year old. "Linc," she said, drawing his attention away from the pen.   
         "Yeah?"   
         "What's you're opinion of your teacher?"   
         He shrugged. "Dunno."   
         "Do you like her?"   
         He shrugged again. "Not really."   
         "Why's that?"   
         "She don't like me."   
         "Why's that?" she repeated.   
         He shrugged yet again. "She gets mad at me a lot. She thinks I like making trouble."   
         "Do you?"   
         Linc shook his head. "Nu-uh. When I get in trouble I gotta go see Mr. Thrapple and he really don't like me. Daddy said that he just don't like people bein' bad, but he really don't like me."   
         "He's scared of you, Linc," Ben said softly. "Doesn't mean he doesn't like you."   
         Linc spun toward his father, surprise on his face. The sudden movement sent the pen and the tongue depressor flying to the floor as the paper cover spun with him. "Scared of me?"   
         "Scared of Grandpapa, anyway. He's scared you'll be like him."   
         "Oh." He looked down at where his 'toys' had fallen. Ben picked them up wordlessly, and placed them beside his son. The doctor followed the exchange intently. "So is that why I'm not supposed to use -" he cut himself off and mimed locking his lips closed. "Grandpapa's secret."   
         "Yes," Ben said curtly, then looked at the doctor, "I trust everything said here is protected under patient confidentiality?"   
         "Yes, of course."   
         Ben nodded, "Now I have to go to work, and Linc needs to go to class before he gets in trouble again." The excuse was true, but it was equally transparent as an escape.   
         "You will return this afternoon for a longer session?"   
         Ben hesitated, though he could think of no appropriate reason to dodge the request. Neither he nor Linc had much on their social planners. "I'll come at 1600," he said in resignation. 

  
  


Next


	2. Legacy 2

The Legacy of Alfred Bester

NOTE: This story is written as an epilogue to the Psi Corps series by J. Gregory Keyes. Characters and Places are the property of JMS, Babylonian Productions, and so forth. Ben stood uncertainly behind his usual chair in the cafeteria. Mark forced a smile and tried too hard to imitate a friendly greeting. James, on the other hand, grunted a hello through a forkful of spaghetti, a comfortingly normal response to his arrival. So. Mark was going to pretend everything was as it had been - Ben was not terribly impressed by his acting ability. However, nothing really had changed for James. Of course, James spent his days in the company of actual war criminals. The son of one was not somebody to be especially concerned about. Mark, after all, was nothing like his father. Despite the logical reasons for it, Ben found James' attitude very heartening. Seemed he'd keep at least one of his two new 'friends.' 

"How'd your talk with the pricipal go?" James asked when he finished chewing and Ben had sat down. 

Ben shrugged, "About as well as could be expected. On the condition that we both take counselling with the school psychologist, Linc wasn't suspended." 

James covered a grim smile. "Take it then, that you didn't manage to talk about that missing pathology gene?" 

"Ha," the sound was more word than laugh. "No, if anything, my arguments just convinced him more of it. But it's not even like my father was especially violent, really. 'Cold' was always the word used to describe him." 

"Not violent?" Mark shook his head, denying the claim. "He killed I don't even know how many people, mundanes and telepaths alike." 

"More mundanes than telepaths," James qualified. 

"He considered all that a part of the war, and therefore, they were neccessary deaths as far as he was concerned. They were a part of his job. He never killed in anger or revenge. He never attacked anybody without reason. That's not pathology, and that's not what Mr. Thrapple is worried about. If he worried that Linc would turn into an assassin, that would at least be understandable, but he's afraid of senseless violence, something my father was never a part of. His violence always had some kind of logic to it. I'm not defending him, I'm just saying that _he_ thought he was doing the right thing." 

"You don't have to answer this, if you don't want to, but who's side in the war did you fight on?" Mark asked curiously. "I just wonder because when you say something for our side, I can't tell if you're distancing yourself from your - from Mr. Bester or if you actually believe it." 

"If I'd fought on my father's side, do you really think I'd not be sharing the cell next to his?" Ben shook his head. "No, I was on the winning side." Publically, at least. Ben Bester had always been a pragmatist. He'd been on both sides. It was as close as he could have come to neutrality. Both sides had their pluses and their minuses. He helped the pluses and told the other side about the minuses. It also had the additional benefit of putting him on the winning side, regardless of who won - as long as he didn't get caught. The one time he'd been close to discovery, he passed it off as an intelligence gathering mission. Linc wasn't the only Bester who did well as the Blip - er, War Criminal - in those childhood games. 

His phone rang, and pulled it out of his pocket with a look of distaste and apprehension. He passed it to James. "If that's Mr. Thrapple, could you tell him I'm ill?" 

James accepted the thing, unfolded it, and pushed the ANSWER button. "Dr. Bester's phone, who may I ask is calling?" He listened a moment, then held the mouthpiece against his shoulder. "It's your lab." 

Ben held out his hand and took the phone back. "Ben, go." 

"Your unit's making a heck of a racket. Beeping. It's password protected so we can't turn it off, and we're getting headaches," the voice on the other side complained. 

"I'll be right there." He snapped the phone closed, and looked down at his barely touched meal. He grabbed the hamburger, and said, "You're welcome to the fries, otherwise I'll throw them out." 

Mark made a vague wave-like gesture. "I'll have them, you go on. Sounds urgent." Ben nodded and left, dropping the phone back into his pocket and trying to consume the hamburger before he reached the lab. 

* * *

The others gathered around as he sat at his AI unit and quickly typed in his password, using his body to sheild it from his observers. The password request screen cleared to reveal another password request screen, and he typed in a different combination of letters and numbers. That cleared and the beeping finally stopped. The words "ANALYSIS COMPLETE. SEE RESULTS" were followed immediately by another password field. One of the lab techs huffed a laugh. 

Ben ignored him and entered a third string of characters and the meassage "CORRELATION FOUND" appeared. "Found? It found one?" Ben asked, not daring to believe it. He hit another combination of keys even though no request for a password had been made. A colorful representation of a pair of chromosomes appeared on the screen with two places marked. One had a Psi symbol next to it, and the other had the letter P. Ben hit two more keys and the image magnified around the P marker. "There?" he muttered to himself, "That can't be right. That's in-between genes. What's the R-square?" He hit another button and the legend "R2=1" appeared under the picture. 

"One?" Ben read in disbelief. He shook his head. "Can't be a hundred percent. A fluke." He began typing again. "Try a larger sample size." It asked for another password and he gave it. 

"What?" someone behind him asked, and Ben realized his audience had not left. 

"Oh, nothing much," Ben said, trying to keep his excitement in check. "The computer just thinks it found the point in the genome that determines telepathic ability." 

One of them shook his head in confusion. "We've know that for centuries." 

"No, not the marker that sometimes says you're a teep. The one that says what your P rating is." Stunned silence. 

Finally, somebody said, "Impossible. You're right, it's got to be a fluke. They've been looking for that for even longer than we've had the marker." The rest nodded and mumbled their agreement, but they all looked hopefully at the "PROCESSING" screen of Ben's unit. Ben hit another button, and "TIME REMAINING 48:32:21" began counting down. 

"Two days?" a middle aged woman exclaimed, "How large a sample size are you using?" 

"The whole Psi Corps genetics library," Ben answered, a touch of smugness reaching his voice. 

She blinked and shook her head in surprise. "You've permission to use that?" 

Ben shrugged, "I know the password, anyway." Someone muttered his last name, but nobody commented to that aloud. He was confident that they were all to eager to know the results than to wonder too much at the legality of him knowing and using the password. Some things about Psi Corps had not changed with the new order. The quest for better telepaths was one of them. If a few unauthorized passwords were used, it wasn't exactly the same thing as human experimentation, and most of the genetists had dabbled in that, too. The majority had all been blanket pardoned for 'just following orders,' Ben included. 

* * *

Linc was already sitting on the patient's table when Ben entered Dr. Schlick's office. "Sorry I'm late," he said, glancing at the digital clock on the desk that read 16:23. "Exciting day at work." He took the little orange chair again. 

"That's alright," the doctor assured him. "Linc was just telling me about his day." 

"I was the War Criminal again," Linc explained. "And I hid all during recess and they never found me. They were looking, this time, too. Sometimes, they don't," he added this last for Dr. Schlick's benefit. 

She made an appropriately sympathetic noise, then sat forward, signaling the formal begining of the session. "Everything said here will be held in confidence, though I reserve the right to tell Mr. Thrapple my conclusions regarding Linc's social threat or lack thereof." 

"Sounds fair," Ben agreed. 

She nodded and folded her hands together in front of her. "Good. According to Mr. Thrapple, my assignment here is to make sure Linc and yourself, Dr. Bester, are not a threat to his classmates and the employees of the school. I already feel confident that neither of you are, but I've been paid for weekly sessions with you two, so I'm going to change the focus to helping you cope with your surname and just generally advise on anything you feel you want to bring up with me. Does this seem a reasonable goal?" 

Ben nodded, "It does." Linc looked up from the hold in the table's cushion that currently held his interest, and quickly pulled his finger out of it, as though expecting to get in trouble. "What?" he asked when no rebuke seemed forthcoming from the two adults looking at him. 

"Linc, please try to pay attention," Ben told him, with little hope of being heeded. 

"I was," he insisted. "You and her were talking about grown-up things. Bills and stuff." 

Close enough. He'd apparently caught the word 'paid.' "And stuff," Ben agreed. "You were saying, Doctor?" 

She smiled a doctor's smile and asked, "So is there anything you'd like to talk about right off? Linc's mother, Linc's grandpapa, your friends, the world in general . . ." 

_None of the above,_ Ben thought. But for an answer he shrugged and shook his head. Linc did likewise. "Your friends then," Dr. Schlick said as though he'd spoken. "A neutral topic." 

Ben tried to laugh. "It might have been a neutral topic had I had any." 

Linc looked at his hands, then spread them, palms upward. "I don't got any either. Just Dad." 

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't think - Acquaintances then." 

Ben exchanged a glance with Linc, *_You go ahead first._* 

"K. Well, I guess the kids in my class are ack-ackqwain-that word. I play War Criminal and EABI with them at recess, but they always make me be the War Criminal and they don't always look for me and they don't like me much. They always call me Mr. Bester instead of Linc." That, Ben had not known. 

"Does that bother you?" the doctor asked. 

Linc shrugged. "It's not my name yet. Mr. Bester is a grown-up name." 

"But it won't bother you being Mr. Bester when you are a grown-up?" 

Linc shook his head. "Nu-uh." 

"What about you, Dr. Bester?" 

Ben blinked, not expecting the conversation to turn to him so soon. "Do I mind him being called Mr. Bester? Or are we talking about my acquaintences now?" 

"Did it bother you being called Mr. Bester, Dr. Bester? You're a P12, why aren't you a Psi Cop?" 

"At the time, I was trying to be as unlike my father as I could be. That had nothing to do with what he did and morality played no role in that. You have to understand that I was still reeling from the results of the paternity test. My father never acknowledged me as his own, you know, and even though my mother swore up and down that I was, I didn't know who to believe. So when I was seventeen - and pretty close to graduating as a Psi Cop, actually - I insisted on a test, and it came back positive. I was more than a little upset that he was my dad and he never even bothered with the test and just assumed I wasn't, so I intentially failed all my Psi Cop class finals, thus disqualifying me for the occupation, and went into genetics instead. Figured I wouldn't run across him much there. I was just being a selfish, stupid, vengeful teenager. I should have gone into the Culinary." 

"Why's that?" 

"The only experimentation they do there is taste testing." 

She sat up straight at his sharp tone, and said only, "Oh." Several moments passed in silence. Linc shifted position and his heels soon began to thunk against the drawers. Ben looked pointedly at his son's feet and the thumping stopped as he changed position again. "Well," the doctor finally said, "If you'd like to come by when Linc's in class sometime, we could talk about that more." 

"No," Ben said firmly. 

"Or anything else you feel uncomfortable discussing in front of him." 

"No," Ben repeated, starting to feel like a petulant two-year-old. 

She sighed and looked at the clock. 16:31. Had it really been less than ten minutes since he arrived? "Look, Dr. Bester, if you don't talk, I can't help you." 

"I thought you were supposed to be helping Linc." 

"Sometimes, the most help I can give a kid is to help his parent," she leaned forward and responded with a hint of angry frustration in her voice. 

"And you think this is one of those situations?" Ben shot back, causing Linc to push himself against the wall, as though trying to get out of a crossfire. 

She glanced at Linc and answered more slowly thatn she almost had. "Yes. Your father's shadow falls much more heavily on you. Only a shadow of that shadow falls on Linc and I think most of that is filtered through you." She sat back and asked clinically, "What is Grandpapa's secret?" 

Ben found himself on his feet with no memory of stading up. He made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw and fists. "Come on, Linc," he said, slowly, holding a hand out toward his son, though his brown eyes never left the psycologist. Linc took it tentatively then sensing that his father was not at all upset with him, he hopped down from the table confidently. "In one week," Ben told her, "we'll talk about my acquiantances." 

* * *

She slumped in her seat as the door closed behind Dr. Bester and ran a shaking hand over her eyes. That man could be as frightening as his father when he had a mind to be. It wasn't so much the flash of temper that was scary as the way he bottled it back up inside him. She wondered, not for the first time that day, whether she was good enough to handle this case. She was a school psychologist. She was supposed to deal with the children. Upsets over grades, sibling rivalry, self-confidence problems, jiltings by boyfriends or girlfriends. A few parent divorces, some deaths of grandparents or other older family, and the occassional parent's or friend's death. 

Well, Lincoln Bester met two of the criteria: a mother's death and a grandparent's death. But where was it written that she had to deal with a child facing seclusion because his grandfather was Alfred Bester? What right do war criminals have to have children? It creates all sorts of messy problems. Which brings her back to Benjamin Bester. His were the problems she might have been able to help with if she'd caught him when he was still Linc's age or even a little older. Parental rejection. A famous father. But back then it was still the Grins who dealt with psychology and she'd been a child herself. Whatever could have been done then, the damage was there in his psyche now. So now her job was not to prevent, but to repair. 

There were no books or course that she'd ever heard about that said how to fix the mental wounds of having a father like Alfred Bester. To her knowledge, Hitler was childless, so no previous case there. Children of other dictators . . . well, they probably hadn't gone to see psychologists. If it hadn't been for Linc and Mr. Thrapple, neither would Ben - Dr. Bester. He didn't understand the importance that he get help. Raised by anybody else, preferably with a different surname, Linc would be like any other child. 

Al Bester was a product of his time and his experiance more than his genes. After all, nobody had ever heard of the Mr. Bester who was Al's father except to hear that he was dead. Everyone knew Al had been raised by the Corps with no human parents. She wished a psychologist had been around to help _him_. The Grins were a very poor substitute. 

Linc, for certain, had never met his grandfather in person. He and his father hadn't even gone to his funereal. She'd checked. Dr. Bester had attended Al Bester's trial in Paris, but that was the last, and possibly the only, time he'd seen his father alive. As far as she could tell, Dr. Bester had never told Mr. Bester of the result of the paternity test. 

Despite, or perhaps because, of this lack of contact, Mr. Bester was possibly the most defining role model in Benjamin Bester's life. And Benjamin Bester was the most defining role model in Lincoln Bester's life. Linc's grandpapa was only important to him because his grandpapa was important to his dad. 

And then there was 'grandpapa's secret.' That, more than anything else, was what worried her. What could the son and grandson - who had almost no contact with him - know of Alfred Bester that nobody else did? Most of his life was public record, especially with that autobiography that was just published, but somehow Ben and Linc knew something that was worthy of the title 'grandpapa's secret,' a title powerful enough to cut a chattering boy off in mid-sentance. A secret powerful enough to send Dr. Bester fleeing, not once, but twice. Mr. Bester's life was scary enough, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what kept his descendants tight-lipped even in a protected conversation. But a secret is a dangerous thing and sometimes talking about them helps. At this late date, who could one of Bester's secrets possibly hurt? 

* * *

Ben sat in a soft blue armchair, with his face in his hands, looking anything but comfortable. "Linc," he finally said. 

The boy lay on the grey carpet, practicing drawing his letters. He carefully finished crossing a 't' before saying, "Yeah." 

Ben sat straighter, and dropped his hands into his lap. "Do you want to go to school or is home-schooling good enough?" 

Linc shrugged. "Dunno." He put his pencil down, and swiveled to a sitting position. He cock his head to one side and asked, "Why?" 

"I don't really like Dr. Schlick, and if you get home schooled, then we don't have so talk to her anymore." 

"Oh." He picked up the pencil again and started drawing a 'u'. When he reached the bottom of the curve, he stopped and looked at his dad again. "Dunno," Linc said in case he wanted another opinion on the subject. 

"One more week," Ben decided. "We'll see then." That felt a little less like a cowardly escape. A little. And yet the thought of meeting with Dr. Schlick again made him break out in a cold sweat of fear. He didn't want to talk about his life, his father, and most especially, his father's secrets. The Shadow tech alone would open the way for a board of inquiry that he probably couldn't withstand. And Lincoln had used it. That would cast a dark shadow over the boy that he did not deserve. And then there was the Dexter thing. That wouldn't be dangerous, exactly, but he knew in his gut that it shouldn't get out that Stephen Dexter and Al Bester were one and the same. No, that irony was for the Bester family only. "Linc?" 

He finished a 'v'. "Yeah?" 

"Don't tell her about the vids you saw on my computer, ok?" 

He nodded, crossed his heart, and locked his lips. "Grandpapa's secret." He started drawing a 'w.' 

  
  


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	3. Legacy 3

The Legacy of Alfred Bester

NOTE: This story is written as an epilogue to the Psi Corps series by J. Gregory Keyes. Characters and Places are the property of JMS, Babylonian Productions, and so forth. Two days passed uneventfully for Ben while he avoided Dr. Schlick and his program plodded through the large, unauthorized library of genetic samples. As its count-down neared its final estimate, the other geneticists gathered around Ben's desk in breathless anticipation. By the time it buzzed its 'completed' noise, the lab's entire population was waiting there expectantly. 

Ben entered a series of three passwords before the words "CORRELATION CONFIRMED" appeared on the screen. The spectators' unnatural silence broke into excited discussions as Ben fingered another key combination to display "R2 = 0.969879" 

"R-square's still really high," he said unnecessarily as the discussions became even more animated. He hit another key combination and the printer beside him came to life. "I'm printing out a couple copies of the report," he told whomever might be listening to him. When it finished, he gave a packet to three of the other scientists, who quickly began to flip through the pages and point out specific parts to colleagues standing nearby. The fourth packet he kept for himself. 

The meeting began an hour later, after the top four geneticists had had a chance to look through the report. These sat around the table in the small conference room, while the others fought over the two reports posted in the lab. The other two reports, including Ben's copy, sat on the table between the four. ". . . includes the data from both the preliminary test and the larger data pool," Ben was saying. "As you can see, this area of the second chromosome pair, outside of any particular gene, seems to be the defining factor of a telepath's ability level." He turned the page, and pointed to a long series of A's, T's, G's, and C's. "The closer both chromosomes are to this sequence, or something like it, the stronger the telepath. The exceptions that keep the R-square from being a one is when the person isn't a telepath. They're still a P0, even if they do have this sequence on both chromosomes." 

The other three had already read the report and nodded their understanding of this summary. "What are we going to do about this?" asked Dr. Jackson, the oldest of them, when the silence threatened to become permanent. 

"Test it," the woman, Dr. Larkis, said promptly. She was only a few years junior to the older man. 

"How?" prompted Dr. Steward, a man several years older than Ben. 

The oldest two exchanged a look, then Larkis ventured, "Splice into one twin, the other is the control." 

Steward frowned. "Is that legal?" 

A quiet fell over the four. "I don't know," Jackson finally answered. "People give their kids gene splices all the time when a screening shows a genetic disease probability. Don't see why this would cause an alarm. We're not even splicing a gene, just some of the random in-between." 

"Which suggests it's not so random and unnecessary as previously thought," Ben pointed out. 

"We don't know that for a fact yet. The report," she tapped one of the packets, "certainly suggests it, but maybe that's just a weird coincidence." 

"With an R-square of 97%?" countered Steward incredulously. 

Larkis shrugged, "Like I said, weird." 

Jackson cleared his throat, bringing an end to the argument as everyone turned toward him. "All in favor of the twin test say aye, all against say nay." 

Three ayes and one nay sounded around the table. Jackson, Larkis, and Ben held a hand half-raised in unbroken habit from their school days. Both of Steward's hand lay flat on the table. He looked at the others and shook his head, "It's too close to what the war tried to stop," he insisted. 

"Then you can leave and keep your hands clean," Jackson said without sympathy for the younger man's qualms. 

"And for Pete's sake, don't tell anyone until after we've done the test," Larkis added as Steward rose to his feet. 

Ben grinned and allowed a flash of black humour to show on his face, "Then you can tell whomever you'd like, and if we're found guilty, then you get an instant promotion. If not, we fire you." 

Jackson half-coughed, half-laughed, "In either case, the experiment will come to term, and whoever is left will know the results." 

Steward stood there, looking at them uncertainly. Finally, he said, "You have one week before I report you," he compromised. "I wash my hands of this whole affair." One week was not enough to find volunteers and develop and perform the splice. 

"Two weeks and we'll even say we told you we weren't going to do it," Jackson bargained. Two weeks was also too short a time to set up and execute the experiment, but the chance of completion was a little better. 

"One week," Steward repeated, then left. 

The remaining three looked at each other for several moments before Ben predicted, "I see a lot of overtime in the near future." Jackson and Larkis could only nod agreement. 

"Where will we get the twins?" Larkis asked. "We don't have time to go through channels to get volunteers." 

Another few moments past as they looked at each other. "You and Bester," he decided. 

"What?!" Ben and Larkis repeated in unison. 

"Bester's a P12, you're a P3. In theory, a child should be no more than a P5 or 6. We'll make one a P12. We can't use his wife because she was a compatible P12. Any kid is likely to be a P12 anyway. And we can't use your husband, because, well, you don't have one. So, you and Bester. Permissions are easier that way." As he eyed her, Ben noticed she was eying him back. 

"I'm past menopause," she tried. 

"So we'll use a surrogate mother and harvest a few eggs." 

"No." 

"Dr. Velistini," Ben suggested, "She's only about twenty-five, and she's also a P3. Unmarried still, too." 

Jackson thought about. "Will she agree, do you think?" 

"With adequate compensation, I think so. She's ambitious." 

Jackson nodded, "Good." He turned to the computer installed into one of the walls. "Computer, get me Dr. Velistini." In a few moments, her image appeared on the screen. "Doctor," he began, "would you come to small conference room?" She nodded and promised to be there in a minute. 

While they waited for her arrival, they sat in silence. She entered well within her promised deadline, and took Steward's seat without so much as a by-your-leave. Jackson smiled. "Are you familiar with twin experiments?" he asked without preface. 

She nodded. "I am." 

"Do you have any moral problems with them?" 

She frowned and shook her head. "I do not." 

"Do you have any problem with using your own eggs to make the twins?" 

She blinked. "I, I, I don't know. Why?" 

"We were given one week to get this experiment underway before Dr. Steward reports it. That is not time enough to find an outside volunteer. Our idea is to use your egg and Dr. Bester's sperm." 

"I," she began before getting stuck. She shook her head and tried again, "I'm single. What am I supposed to do with a pair of twins?" 

"If you'll carry them, I'll take them in afterwards," Ben offered softly. 

"You'll also get hazard pay, and full medical coverage," added Jackson. 

She looked between them. Jackson nodded encouragingly, Larkis smiled her vote of confidence, and Ben nodded once, more because she seemed to want something from him than because he supported the proposition wholeheartedly. Finally she nodded as well. "I'll do it. But I expect my name on this report when it comes out," she said tapping one of the packets on the table. 

"Granted," Jackson said with a wide grin. 

* * *

Ben dropped, exhausted, into Dr. Schlick's chair little orange chair. It was the first time he'd seen Lincoln in 36 hours, and it had been longer since he last slept. The deadline was fast approaching and final preparations were underway. A fertilized egg and its clone sat in the lab. The DNA splice fragment was nearly prepared. Velistini had been to the obstetrician thrice already. By sheer chance, she was already at the optimal point in her cycle to accept an implant. 

"Hard day, Dr. Bester?" Schlick asked sympathetically. 

Ben rubbed at his eye, and answered, "Hard week. We've a deadline in two days. The lab's been flying. It's amazing. I think we'll actually make it." 

She looked surprised. "I hadn't been aware deadlines played such a stressful role in your profession." 

Ben shrugged, "Normally, they don't. But we'll be reported in two days, so we need to finish by then or it'll probably get canceled." 

"Reported? Is it an illegal experiment?" 

Ben shrugged, "I don't know. None of us do. But we can't risk it being canceled, so we're hurrying. Twin tests are borderline." 

"You are in favor of them?" 

Ben nodded and stifled a yawn. "There's no better way to test some things. We think this sequence will make a P5 into a P12. But we can't know unless we try. If all goes well, you'll be getting a pair of twin Besters in this school in about five years, one should be a P5, the other a P12." 

"Besters?" She repeated. "You're doing this to your own children?" 

"I'm the only P12 in the lab, so Jackson wanted me to donate the sperm. It would be hypocritical if I supported the practice but wasn't willing to do it to my own. My father - nevermind." 

"What?" 

Ben shook his head. "I was just going to say that my father took part in the Glial Experiment, before the war." 

"Grandpapa was a scientist, too?" Linc asked, looking up from the rubber band he'd been amusing himself with. 

"No, he was a volunteer for one of the projects," Ben explained. 

"Oh. Can I volunteer?" 

Ben shook his head. "Not right now, but you're going to have two siblings because of this one that Daddy's Lab is working on now." 

Linc cocked his head, and frowned in thought. "I guess that's ok." 

Even as Linc nodded his acceptance, Dr. Schlick frowned her disapproval. "In this," she said, "I fear you are very much your father's son." Ben thought he caught a hint of self-reproach in the statement, as though even as she spoke, she knew she shouldn't being saying such a thing. Or perhaps, it was just that she thought she had misjudged him to be a decent person. 

Ben was, quite frankly, too tired to curb his words. "Go ahead and think that if it makes you feel better about yourself. But anything new has to be tested eventually on real people. This is not so evil a thing as some of you people make it out to be. The process we'll use is well known and practiced commonly. We don't know if we'll get the result we want, but the worst case scenario that I can see is that both twins will be P6s. That's a higher rating than you have, is it not, Doctor? Of course, the side effects of the Glial Experiment were not foreseen, either, but that's treatable at least. Also, we do have a rather more solid basis for our theories than the Glial one, so the risk of something like that happening here is minimal. These twins will be brought into a more or less normal home, and will experience situations no different than what Linc has to face. The only - the only - thing different about them is that one of them had a small sequence inserted into his DNA and his P-rating is of interst to my lab. That's it. Oh, and their mother is not married to their father, but that's not really all that uncommon, now is it? I've already signed the papers to take full responsibility of them after their birth. It's not like we're going to throw them away after we get our results. We know we're going to be reported in two days, we wouldn't be doing this if we didn't think we could justify ourselves. None of us want to go to jail." 

"Then why not wait and get official approval, rather than rushing, as though you expect to be turned down?" 

At her level-headed argument, Ben's pique receded, and he actually grinned guiltily. "It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. It would get bogged down in red-tape for years if we didn't take this initiative." He glanced toward his son, "And I'm going to get into a lot of trouble because of that, and you will, too, if you try it." 

Linc nodded seriously and tried to keep a straight face. Tried and failed, but Ben let it pass. 

* * *

As Dr. Bejamin Bester left her office this time, it was the psychologist rather than the patient who felt as though they had been the subject of a psyche examination. In fact, she admitted to herself, she hadn't done a very good job of examining Dr. Bester's psyche yet. True, she had gotten him to talk today, and quite animatedly despite his fatigue, too. But though the subject touched on his personal views, she still felt as though though the discussion was focused mostly on his work and the controversial issues he faced there. She still didn't know who his friends were - or weren't as the case seemed to be. Nor could she get anything much about Mr. Alfred Bester from him. His personal side was closed to her. 

Not that she had asked about any of that today. She had feared that mentioning any of those subjects would close what little information she was getting and he'd leave as he had before. She wondered again if she were out of her league. Well, if he wouldn't go to a better doctor, perhaps she could. She swivelled her green chair around told the computer to find her Dr. Rachel Murdock. 

After a moment, a dark-skinned woman appeared on the screen. "Emily? To what do I owe this honor?" she asked, smiling and putting down an early evening cup of coffee. 

"A challenging patient, Dr. Murdock," Dr. Schlick began. "I need advice. 

The woman raised an eyebrow, "Oh? First bit is free, don't get personally involved." Then she smiled again to show that she was still interested in what her former student had to say. "You're working at the Academy now, right? Is this patient a teenager?" 

Dr. Schlick shook her head, "No, he's one of the parents, actually. Yes, I am at the school, and last week the prinicipal assigned a kindergartener and his father to attend several sessions with me. The boy is fine, he just gets judged a bit harshly because of his name. He's really quite a sweet child. But his father. . . I'm not trained to work with adults, Dr. Murdock." 

Dr. Murdock folded her hands into her lap. "Due to the confidentiality you've doubtless sworn yourself to, perhaps you would like to discuss this over a cup of tea rather than an open channel?" 

Dr. Schlick smiled and nodded her heartfelt thanks. "Yes, that would be wonderful." She had always loved those talks with her mentor. "Does the Peach Apple Cafe sound good to you?" 

"Splendid. In half an hour, then?" Dr. Schlick agreed to the time, and they said their good-byes. 

* * *

The Peach Apple Cafe was almost empty when Dr. Schlick entered it. She spotted Dr. Murdock at a corner table and joined her there. They greeted one another as she took the seat opposite her mentor, then spoke briefly of pleasantries before Dr. Murdock brought up the purpose of their meeting. "So you have an adult patient, then. Depressed? Suffering from marital or financial problems?" 

Dr. Schlick shook her head, "No, nothing so simple. His name is Dr. Benjamin Bester, and he is the son of Alfred Bester. That only begins to suggest his difficulties." 

"Is the boy safe with him, do you think?" 

Dr. Schlick nodded her head quickly and hastened to explain, "Oh, yes. He's a very good father from what I can tell. Linc seems to be a very happy and well-adjusted child. Once people accept that he is not his grandfather, he'll do fine. Despite his mother's death, he comes from a happy home environment, to the best of my ability to see." 

"When did Mrs. Bester die?" 

"It hasn't come up in discussion, but according to Dr. Bester's file, it was about four years ago. Linc doesn't remember her at all, I imagine." The discussion was momentarily interrupted as a waiter arrived and took their orders. Both women ordered green tea with honey. 

When he was out of earshot, Dr. Schlick resumed, "Dr. Bester is a complex man. In some ways, he tries to be as different from his father as he can be. But at other times, you can tell that he greatly admires the man." 

"Were they close?" 

Dr. Schlick shook her head. "I don't think they ever actually met. He was raised by his mother and Bester denied that he was the father." 

"There was a question?" 

"Not anymore. Dr. Bester ran a paternity test that came up positive." A short lull in the conversation was filled by the arrival of the tea. "Dr. Bester seems to be a fairly normal man, all things considered, but the reason I came to you for help is that he isn't being especially open. He only attends the sessions because, if he didn't, Linc would be put on suspension. So the things that he needs to talk about, he keeps silent about, and very often leaves if I bring up the subject." 

"Which subjects are these?" 

"His father, mostly. During the first meeting, Linc started to say something - I wish I could remember what - then stopped himself, saying 'grandpapa's secret'. That phrase, on the first two sessions, precipated his abrupt leaving. Today, for the third session, the subject did not come up and he left in a relatively amiable mood." 

"And Linc?" 

"He's crossed his heart and hoped to die not to tell. At Dr. Bester's instigation, too, I might add. What should I do?" 

Dr. Murdock sipped at her tea, then added another dollop of honey. "Continue as you have been. Don't rush it, and don't press him for anything he's not ready to tell you. You've only just begun and it's natural that he doesn't trust you yet. Give him time, meanwhile, let him talk of what he wants to talk about. Let him get used to talking with you. He'll confide little things first. Don't expect to learn whatever Grandpapa's secret is for quite some time, months, maybe years, maybe decades, maybe not ever. But most of all: Do. Not. Get. Personally. Involved." 

Of course not. That had been lesson one while she was still a student. But because of her vast respect for Dr. Murdock, she swallowed her offense, and said only, "I won't." 

* * *

"Do I still hafta go to school, Dad?" Linc asked curiously as Ben put the microwaved left-overs from last night's take-out Chinese on the table. He'd not had any then; he'd been at work, the baby-sitter had ordered it up. 

"Of course you still have to go to school." 

"Oh." Linc was silent for a few moments while the over-done noodles were dropped into a dry mass on his plate. "Last time you said I might stop going." He poked his fork tentatively at the unappetizing pile. 

Oh, right. Ben had mentioned the possibility of home-schooling when he hadn't wanted to see Dr. Schlick anymore. "For a little while longer anyway, then we'll see. Until the mess at work gets cleared up, I don't have time to look for a tutor for you." 

Because his mouth was full of lo mein, he 'cast, _*Good. Tomorrow, we're playing football in gym and I get to be goalie. This tasted better last night.*_

  
  


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	4. Legacy 4

The Legacy of Alfred Bester

NOTE: This story is written as an epilogue to the Psi Corps series by J. Gregory Keyes. Characters and Places are the property of JMS, Babylonian Productions, and so forth. "Message waiting," Dr. Schlick's computer informed her as she dropped her light jacket onto its hook. 

She scowled at it briefly. "Wait a minute, will you? I just got back from lunch." She had been secretly hoping there wouldn't be anything for her to do immediately when she got back because she really just wanted to sit in her big green chair and doze for a few minutes. She bustled about her office, hoping to fool the computer and herself into thinking she was busy, but finally she gave up with a sigh. "Play message." 

Ben Bester's head and shoulders appeared on the screen. He looked to be on death's door. His skin appeared greyish, his hair was a mess, and dark rings lined his eyes. Had she been a medical doctor, one look at him would have been enough for her to prescribe at least a month in bed. 

He hesitated several moments, before something like bravado crowded the exhaustion from his expression. "The lab has all been arrested. Our prelimary hearing before the Board of Ethics will begin at sixteen hundred this afternoon. If you'd like, you're welcome to attend. We'll be in Hearing Room Two down at the Courthouse. Bring Linc." The message broke off abruptly. She wasn't sure if a time limit had run out or if he was simply too tired to end the transmission with a closing statement. 

She frowned at the now-blank screen, then left her office to find the school secretary. She found him at his desk, fingering through a pile of papers. "I'll be leaving at fifteen-thirty, today," she told him. 

He looked up in surprise, "I thought you were staying late tonight." 

She shook her head. "Something came up." 

"Your sister's not ill, is she?" he asked, immediately concerned. 

Schlick shook her head. "No, no, she's fine," she assured him quickly, "My parents are also doing well. It's about a patient." 

If anything, his concern grew. "One of the students?" 

"No, one of their parents. Dr. Bester will be facing a board of inquiry this afternoon." She hadn't intended to tell him, but it was hardly a secret now, and the man would probably take it into his head that she had developed cancer or something next. 

He finally relaxed, and surprised her by turning suddenly vindictive. "Oh. So they finally caught him red-handed then. Good." 

She opened her mouth to protest, then shook her head in defeat. Ben had known how people would react to the twin test, and he knew how people reacted to his name. If he wanted to avoid that kind of talk, he shouldn't have supported this project. But surely she wasn't the only one who wouldn't automatically condemn him. . . . Was she? 

* * *

Emily Schlick did not know what to expect as she let a Courtroom employee lead her and Linc through a door labeled "Hearing Room 2". Child psychologist or not, she wasn't sure whether it was simple shyness or a deeper fear that made Linc grab onto her slacks as though she were a security blanket. 

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze to tell him everything would be fine, though she held no such certainty for herself. He relaxed marginally and followed her to seats in the second row of public chairs. The room was by no means full, but she suspected the turnout was higher than for a normal hearing. The first six rows on the other side of the central aisle were filled with men and women who obviously knew one another, though their dress code ranged from suits to stained lab coats. Only a smattering of people filled the rest of the seats. 

The public area was seperated from the rest of the room by a wooden railing. The swinging gate where the central aisle ended merged smoothly into it, noticable only by the hinges and latch. On its other side, two empty tables flanked the gate, their chairs placed so that anyone sitting in them would have their backs to the audience and face a third piece of furniture that was more bar than table. The high backs of three chairs peaked from the opposite side. 

After what seemed a short eternity, during which time Linc fidgetted but did not speak, a side door opened and three black robed figures entered and took the seats behind the bar. Linc stilled as the hard, solemn faces of the judges swept their audience. The leftmost one signaled to the baliff, and the side door opened again. Three men and three women dressed in suits filed in and sat at the table in front of the crowd of spectators. Two more men followed after a moment and took seats at the table ahead of her and Linc. 

"Defendants rise," the center judge intoned, and four of the people from the first table stood. "Dr. Edward Jackson," the white-haired heavy-set man nearest his sitting attorneys straightened. "Dr. Marcia Larkis," the grey-haired matron beside Jackson tugged uncomfortably at the sleeve of her suit jacket. "Dr. Benjamin Bester," beside Larkis, Ben lifted his chin at his name. "And Miss Amelia Velistini," the young woman at the end of the table breathed in deeply. "You stand accused of unethical conduct in the realm of human experimentation, how do you plead?" 

"Not guilty, Your Honors," Jackson stated firmly. "The experiment was the logical next step in our research, the splicing method used is universally accepted and commonly used, the egg and sperm donors were fully aware of our intent, the children's future was considered and assured, and the twin test is unquestionably the most certain way to prove or disprove our theory by the scientific method." Either by rehearsal, psi command, or unspoken agreement, all four sat down together. 

The room sat in silence for several moments before the central judge turned his head toward the other table. "Prosecution?" he prompted. 

One of the men there rose, and addressed the judges. "In a disturbing return to the morals of the Psi Corps, these scientists have taken it upon themselves to play god with not only the lives of two unborn children, but also with the legal system, the scientific community, and evolution itself. During the course of this inquiry, we will learn exactly how the Corps still lives in our midst." The lawyer nodded once, then sat down. 

Again, silence fell over the room. Then the judge rapped his gavel twice and signaled toward the baliff. As he opened the door for the third time, the prosecuter stood again and announced, "Prosecution calls Dr. Jeremiah Steward." 

A man of middle years entered through the side door. Gray only barely touched his temples. His hair was otherwise a dark brown, and his eyes were only a shade or two lighter. He held none of the stuffiness Schlick had expected of a man rule-bound enough to turn in his collegues. He studiously avoided looking at the other scientists, and the lab contingent of the audience whispered darkly as their betrayer took the stand beside the judges. Steward wiped sweaty palms against his pants and seemed unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. 

"Dr. Steward," the prosecuting attorney began without preamble. "Could you tell the committee when this all began?" 

Steward cleared his throat, and looked up finally. "By 'all', do you mean the finding the sequence or starting the experiment?" 

The lawyer made an expansive gesture. "Let us get the whole story. Begin at the sequence discovery." 

"I don't know when Ben started his independant research. We all do some. Just trying things out, all on paper so to speak, looking for coincidences nobody noticed before. Usually, they don't pan out, but Ben found a real nugget a week and two days ago. He hit upon a sequence that may predict psi ratings. His initial results showed a 100% correlation, so he went for a bigger sample size. Even he figured it was a fluke. But two days later, when it finished -" 

"Two days?" the lawyer interrupted. "How big a database was he searching?" 

Steward blinked, then looked guiltily toward Ben. "The Psi Corps Genetic Library." Schlick wished desperately she could see Ben's face. "Sorry, Ben." 

She could see his arm flex as though he made a small wave in front of himself. The looked at toward the audience with raised brows, then turned the expression at the witness. "The whole library? Does your lab have access to that?" 

He shrugged, but his face was like a child's suddenly caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar. Or a deer caught in headlights. "Ben knew the password." 

"Does anyone else?" 

He shook his head. "Not to my knowledge." 

"That wasn't in what you reported to the ethics committee, was it?" 

"I, I forgot about it. It seemed so small an infraction next to the other." Schlick suspected the latter statement did not need the last four words to account for the first. If the scientists had gone through channels rather than playing maverick as they had, it would have been overlooked by every scientist in the lab and most probably the authorities as well. 

"Tell us about what you did report." 

"Well, his search of the Library finished two days later. The correlation was still in the high ninety percent range. Ninety-seven, I think. We looked at the exceptions, and found the vast majority had sequences that mapped to strong telepathic ability, but the were not telepathic at all. Mundanes like Director Kevin Vacit sometimes get into our Library, and they threw off the correlation. Vacit should have been one of the strongest telepaths ever born. 

"Anyway, Drs. Jackson, Larkis, Bester, and I met to see what we should do about the discovery. Larkis, I believe, suggested the twin test. I questioned its legality, but Jackson put it to a vote. All but I were in favor. I told them I would report it if they attempted it. I had the next week off, and I figured they had dropped it. You simply can't set-up a twin test in a week. But when I returned this morning, I discovered most of the staff half-dead from exhaustion, and the rest absent entirely. They made no secret that the test had initiatiated and the twins already implanted into a womb. I reported it immediately." 

Schlick noticed Jackson shake his head minutely, but the lead scientist made no objection, nor comment to his lawyer. 

"You said the experiment cannot be set up in a week?" 

"Not properly," Steward conceded. "Clearly, it was possible with cut corners." 

The lawyer half-sat on his table, clearly pleased with the direction of the testimony. "Which corners were cut?" 

"Objection!" the defense lawyer spoke for the first time. "Dr. Steward himself states he was not present during the experment's preparation." 

"As another geneticist, he knows how long each step should take," the prosecutor argued. 

The center judge nodded and did not consult his peers. "Overruled." 

"Which steps should have caused the preparation to take more time than it did?" the lawyer rephrased his question. 

"I've never known a twin test to take less than a year before the implantation to the womb, even under Psi Corps rules. The longest step is finding the surrogate and genetic donors, if only because of the beaurocrasy involved in that step. Legal forms, finding the right willing volunteers, doctor's visits, more forms, that kind of thing. Once you've got the zygote, which requires a donate sperm and egg, so we're already talking months into the process, you need to clone it. Meanwhile, you're also developing the sequence for insertion. That should take a month, at least. Then there's the insertion. You need to check and recheck that it got put in the right place, and that no other mutations occurred. Generally, that takes another couple weeks. Clone both the original and the altered one and freeze them in case the implantation doesn't work. Only then can you implant into the surrogate. This is the point my collegues reached in one week." He looked at the defense table accusingly. "I'd also like to know under which grant this was funded. I don't doubt you could get one for this, but not in a week, with time to spare for the rest of it." The scientists in the audience shifted uncomfortably. 

The attorney smiled. Schlick did not think it a pretty one at all. There were images of Alfred Bester hosting interrogations that were more charming. "No further questions." 

The defense attorney rose as the prosecutor returned to his seat. "Is it not true that with the majority of the staff working around the clock, the lab's portion of the preparation could be accomplished in a week?" 

"I wouldn't have believed it before today, but they seem to have." 

"Are not splicing, cloning, and surrogate implantation standard procedures dating back to the late 20th century?" 

Steward nodded. "Any genectist worth their tuition can splice and clone in their sleep. Surrogates are not exactly common, but the procedure is by no means new or experimental." 

"Then what have you against the twin test?" 

Steward's eyes widened in surprise. "Do the words 'human experimentation' or 'eugenics' mean anything to you? We fought the War to stop this nonsense. Maybe it'd be different if they went through channels. But it's like the Corps all over again," he rammed a fist against the rail, and shook his head angrily. But he kept his voice even, if strained. "This isn't just breeding a super telepath, it's literally building one. Not to mention, these are unknown waters, here. The sequence in question, by all preexisting theory, should not affect _anything_. It's in the middle of the random garbage between genes. What we thought was random garbage, that is. This is a shot in the dark. We don't _know_ how this could affect someone. You want a twin test? Do one on a pair of, I don't know, sheep or something. See, first, if changing the in-between makes a difference there. My collegues are moving far too quickly on this." 

Well, Schlick thought with a wince, that was one cross-examination question that back-fired. It should have been in the prosecution's repetoire. 

"Why did you take the week off?" 

Steward brushed sweat from his brow, and shot a glare toward the table of scientists. "It was suggested by Dr. Jackson." There was a small commotion at the table, that Schlick could not follow, since their backs were to her, but Steward and the judges shifted there attention to them. 

"When?" 

"Just after I told them I would report them." 

"Did you not know what they intended?" 

Steward sighed in resignation. "I knew it. How could I not? They knew I'd report it, too. Ben even joked that if they lost, I'd get a promotion, and if they won, I'd be fired. I took the week, but I did not, could not, believe they would finish so quickly. Sure, I knew they'd start while I was gone, and hope I would change my mind, but it never occurred to me they might _finish_. It was one single friggin' _week_. One. By the soul of Stephen Dexter, even those four must be astonished that they did it so fast." His wave toward the defense's table drew attention to Ben coughing over a laugh. 

"If I weren't so dead tired, I would be," the geneticist agreed out of turn, amusement still coloring his voice. His attorney shot him a silencing glare and the judges frowned. Ben seemed unconcerned from what little she could see of him. Bravado, Schlick guessed. 

"No further questions." The defense attorney took his seat, significantly less pleased than his counterpart. 

"Redirect?" the center judge queried. Procescution declined. The baliff escorted Steward out through the side door. o 

  
  


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